


Engine Overheat

by yesiamsleepy



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Crack, cars having sex, clexa cars au, pure unadulterated crack, take nothing seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-05
Updated: 2017-10-05
Packaged: 2019-01-09 07:18:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12271593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yesiamsleepy/pseuds/yesiamsleepy
Summary: Clarke is the first rookie Nissan GT-R to make it into the big leagues. She can almost taste the victory. A night of pre-celebration never hurt anybody, especially when you spot that gorgeous Aston Martin.





	Engine Overheat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [snowvic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowvic/gifts).



> I blame @nb-squid and @happyandstupidotter for this mess.

The sun glinted off her painted decals as another flash went off. The light blue on her hood nearly shimmered in the afternoon heat and could have blinded any accidental passerby not wearing the black aviators that seemed to be customary for any reporter in that circuit. Turning her wheels slightly to the left and arching her eyebrows just so, she provided another killer shot for the cameras. Clarke looked good, and she knew it. If asked the secret behind her chrome wash finish, the rookie racecar maintained it was just her inner radiance shining out.

Her crew chief, on the other hand vehemently denied such falsehoods and claimed it was years of painstaking experiments that produced the perfect blend of water, soap, anionic surfactant and, well, Raven’s own sheer genius. Raven could float it (which she frequently did, considering she was an apache helicopter, but who cared about semantics). 

The fact remained that it was her, and not Raven, or any other brilliantly maintained vehicle the crowds were here to see. The rookie Nissan GT-R had consistently smashed records one after the other and was now finally reaping the rewards. And now, on the eve of the Grand Prix final, her sheer brilliance had millions dying for just a glimpse of her. She could already taste the fame of tomorrow’s victory.

The radio in her dash beeped, Octavia signaling that it was time to move on. Her best friend and manager always had impeccable timing, from press events to barging in on her in the middle of private activities. Not that she was any better. Growing up together meant an almost complete disregard for personal space, something which initially bothered Lincoln, O’s boyfriend of now two years, though he soon got over it. And that, more than anything (even the fact that the gleaming Kawasaki Vulcan with intricate designs on his body looked like he was straight out of a GentleBike Quotient Magazine) earned him the seal of approval from the two best friends.

Wrapping things up quickly, Clarke gave out one last vroom to entertain the crowds (specially the ladies, judging by quite few squeals) and raced off to join her friends at the bar. The night before a race meant the group hanging out together, a few drinks, before turning in early. This race, however, was scheduled for the next evening, the organizers having decided that artificial lights provided a much more enchanting experience, and thus Clarke felt justified in making it a later night that usual.

The gang was all there when she made it to the outdoor pub, reserved for the racers, crew and family. Raven and Octavia were clearly already well on their way to being tipsy, and engaging in ridiculous antics. The copter was perched on top of the Humvee’s hood and no amount of shaking would get her off. Lincoln occasionally honked at their antics, while mostly looked deep in the middle of a discussion with Bellamy. Probably about working out regimens. The Dodge Charger was always a little too vain for Clarke’s tastes. 

She sped up a little and managed to successfully startle all four occupants (enough that Raven finally toppled off a gleeful Octavia). Bellamy threw her a glare as he scrambled to retract his airbags which went off when Clarke zoomed by too close. 

“Not funny”

“I beg to differ,” Octavia threw in laughing uproariously. Both Bellamy and Raven switched their glares to her, leaving Clarke to grab a drink.

Lincoln poured her a generous amount of gasoline, and paused silently asking Clarke if she wanted a water back. The Nissan thought about it before shaking her visors no, deciding to let loose. After all, the victory was almost in the bag. Her only opponents were a Toyota Supra named Cage Wallace (an asshole surely, but one whose top speeds had never been a match for Clarke), a newbie who went by a pseudonym, that Clarke honestly didn’t bother to remember and the reigning champion Anya, a black and yellow Lamborghini Centenario. Honestly the latter gave her a pause, but Anya was also racing for a long time, and Clarke had memorized all her tricks. This would be a breeze.

It was during her third drink, that Clarke saw her. A sleek black Aston Martin Carbon rolling through the crowd who made Clarke’s breath stop. The GT-R would rather get scrapped in a junkyard than admit it out to Raven, but the trim on that car made her engine to skip a rev. Gorgeous shiny metal, intricate headlining, and darker detailing around her headlights completed the look. She was the most beautiful car Clarke had ever seen and she would bet her victory on that. 

The Aston Martin didn’t look like a racecar she knew, so Clarke figured she was probably with one of the other contestants, though she couldn’t tell which one. Most of the other cars were in a rowdy celebratory mood, knowing full well the top three spots were already occupied. They were laughing and mingling, having friendly races, revving up their engines to see who could make the loudest sound. Honestly the cacophony was a bit deafening and Clarke was ready to call it a night. And who knows, maybe shiny, dark and beautiful would be too?

Ignoring her friends, who were busy in another debate of who had the smallest tyres – Trump or well, every other celebrity (Trump, it was always Trump), Clarke made her way to the vehicle, careful not to get scratched by one of the drunks on the way. 

The darker model was talking to a silver M3, one of the louder drunks at the gathering, and also a persistent flirt which Clarke knew from experience. Judging by the death glare being lobbed his way, the Aston Martin had also realized this and was not at all interested. Grinning, she sped up a bit, not intending to miss the perfect opportunity to be the knight in blue metal.

Clarke flashed her headlights once to get the duo’s attention and felt her soul leave her body. Piercing green headlights turned on her seeming to see through her at one glance. A perfectly arched eyebrow expressed her current disdain, though Clarke did notice the glare dimmed a bit at her entrance. But what truly rendered her speechless was the ruby red, shiny and oh so soft bumper that was now turned down in a frown. It was all she could do to tear her gaze away from this goddess of chariots and accomplish her mission.

“Hey! Where have you been? Everyone’s looking for you”

Clarke hoped the breathy quality to her voice was only noticed by her, but doubted it. If the black beauty noticed, though, she kept it to herself, eager to make her escape. 

“I am so sorry. I got caught up in this riveting conversation.” Sarcasm dripped from her voice and Clarke winced sympathetically at the object of her derision, even though she knew he probably deserved it.  
“Bye Frank”

“It’s Finn”, The M3 tried, though neither gave him a backward glance.

“Sure, Frances”

With a quick honk, Clarke cleared the path, the other racers moving out of her way easily, and both sped off ignoring the crestfallen Beemer.

They dove for about ten minutes in silence, neither willing to break the peaceful quiet. When the sounds of the party faded to a distant murmur, Clarke slowed down and her companion followed.

“Thanks for the rescue,” the Carbon said. A small smile now graced her features and if Clarke thought she was beautiful before, she looked positively ethereal now.

“Anytime”, she replied, rolling on her front wheels to execute a stoppie in a perfect imitation of a curtesy making the other car chuckle. “I’m Clarke.”

“Lexa”

Clarke tasted the name on her bumpers. “It is lovely to meet you. Lexa”

“Likewise”

Neither spoke for a few minutes, content to listen to the distant sounds of music filtering in from the party. The Subaru brothers were playing and they were always a hit amongst the four-wheeled population. Clarke tried her best to resist looking at the other car, but whenever she failed, it seemed Lexa was looking at her too. Maybe that was what gave her courage, or maybe she was finally feeling the diesel shots Raven made her try, but when the next song came on, she was ready.

Only Lexa beat her to the punch.

“Clarke, may I have this dance?” The melodic purr of her engine nearly made Clarke forget the question.

“S-sure.” Smooth Clarke, very smooth, she mentally chided herself.

Slow beats filtered in as Lexa opened on door and grazed it lightly against Clarke’s side mirror. Rims glittered as the black car smoothly turned on her wheels in rhythm with the music. The two vehicles rolled slowly, gradually picking up tempo as quick grazes became lingering touches. Clarke glided forward as Lexa pedaled back, both completely in sync with each other. 

The soft glow of the Aston Martin’s headlamps seemed to ensnare Clarke, and the blue GT-R couldn’t help the pull she felt. She wasn’t the only one it seemed as Lexa moved forward in a similar trance. Bumpers touched as the last notes on the melody washed over them and Clarke felt fireworks erupt in her entire chassis as Lexa’s front grill opened to make room for her lips.

The kiss was hot and messy. Fumes from both engines rolled out, nearly causing a spark to light. Radiators overloaded as the heat that went through her body could be barely kept at bay. They separated only when in dire need of a lungful of air.

“My car park is about 2kms away”, Lexa rasped out amongst heaving breaths.

“Mine is just over the bridge.” Being one of the top racers had its advantage.

Both sped off in immediate search of privacy. Clarke took the opportunity to radio Octavia to not wait up for her. Thankfully Raven seemed to have already left with a Jet, else she would have had to endure quite a bit of raucous jokes. 

The drive over was no less charged. Playful bumps, and heated touches promised what was to come. Between the alcohol and Lexa, Clarke felt the most drunk she had ever been and did her best to drive as safely as she could. Not that Lexa made it easier. A small bump to her tail pipe nearly had her crashing.

“Lexa!” She cried aghast, while the other car only laughed out loud. Clarke thought it was the best sound she had ever had. What was an almost accident if her reward was Lexa’s mirth?

The car park was deserted this time of the night, the more serious racers already turned in, and the younger ones still caught up at the party raging on. Clarke spun around and backed up slowly to lead Lexa to her garage. The latter immediately caught the blue car’s grilles in another heated kiss, pinning her to the door when they reached it. 

Clarke considered it a personal victory that she could get the garage door open despite Lexa’s continuous assault. She was this close to giving up and trying out exhibitionism when she felt lips moving from her fenders to her visor lobes and back. And then Lexa began to suck, and all thoughts fled her mind. Who cared if she had a dent in the morning? Certainly not her.

Somehow, they managed to stumble in without security getting called and Clarke decided it was her turn to make Lexa lose her mind. She sped up, backing Lexa against the wall, pressing into her so that the Carbon was now balancing on her rear wheels. 

Clarke took her time dragging her lips across the car’s body, starting with her hood, inching past her fenders, moving on to her front wheel supports, before finally finally inching towards her rear ones, only to inch back up again. Lexa let out a loud vroom of protest eliciting a chuckle from the younger car.

“Claaaarke”, Lexa whined

“Yes?” she replied, now completely pausing her ministrations.

“If you don’t get back to what you were doing, I will personally run you over”

The racecar chuckled but went back to her work, leaving a wet line of radiator water along the longer car’s line shaft. Strong wheels kept her pinned to the wall while Lexa desperately tried to get some friction. Her leakage system was dripping and Clarke knew it.

Taking pity on the older car, the rookie finally placed a wheel where she desperately needed it, causing the black Carbon to honk loud enough to wake the dead.

“Shush. Unless you want everyone here to know exactly how hot your engine can get”

Lexa glared at the other car, but did not say anything. The next swipe produced a considerably quieter, but no less eager vroom. Grease lubricated her lower body and Clarke took it as her cue to keep going. Unintelligible squeaks and muffled honks increased in number and the way Lexa’s doors were being held taught told the racer just how close she was. Lowering her suspension, Clarke replaced her wheels with her bumper. Grilles pressed into Lexa and with a final cry the black sedan let go.

It took a few moments before Lexa was coherent enough to speak. The dazed look in her eyes when she finally opened them was enough to propel the Clarke to cloud nine. The Nissan helped her lower to the ground, and Lexa’s playful glare did little to wipe the smug grin off her face. Lexa knew what could though.

“My turn,” she rasped into Clarke’s ear.

Neither emerged till the sun was well on its way in the sky.

\---------------------

The artificial lights were glinting off all the metal crowded on the tracks and in the audience. The hosts kept droning on and on about how this was a historic match, just like they did every year. Her radio continuously beeped with Raven cursing about how a night race was such a bullshit idea. Honestly Clarke barely paid attention.

She hated the waiting. She just wanted to get on the track and race. Her mind slipped back to memories of the previous evening to pass the time. It had been a really good evening.

The two had stayed up practically all night, and both had spent considerable time learning the other car’s design. Exhaustion had finally crept in around dawn when Clarke passed out. When she woke up, Lexa was gone. A note on the table said she would find Clarke after the race and wished her the best of luck. It made her smile just thinking about it. Clarke couldn’t wait to celebrate her win with her new favourite fan.

Finally, they started calling all the racers to the starting point. Anya was called first, due to her position in the previous match, then a few other veteran racers, before they announced Cage’s name. Clarke felt a sneer appear on her lips involuntarily before she quickly stopped it. It wouldn’t do to let the cameras see how much she hated the other car, despite having ample reason to do so. She would just have to beat him.

As the rookie, Clarke was one of the last ones to be called up. She would have been the very last, except the pseudonym bearing newbie was an even more recent addition. Traditionally Prix races had 15 players, but apparently the newbie’s performance convinced the judges to add them at the last minute when one of the veterans pulled out. Clarke wasn’t too worried. She had been doing it for years, and if they couldn’t enter the race without a last-minute change, she had nothing to worry about.

The hosts announced her name and she rolled onto the platform with her customary flair, making the audience go wild. She showed off a few tricks and even winked at one of the more eager ones at the front row. Clarke was pretty sure she fainted.

Grinning to herself, she took her position and waited for the last member of their party to be called so that they could finally begin. She ignored the gentle ribbing from Raven and Octavia at her showmanship and tried to focus on the announcements.

“….And finally, we have the mysterious racer you have never seen on these streets before. Please welcome Heda…”

All sound seemed to die out as Clarke noticed a familiar black Aston Martin make its way onto the stage. She engaged in none of the dramatics Clarke and most of the other racers liked, preferring instead to lock everyone in one of her steely glares. Clarke knew first-hand how that felt.

The rookie gulped visibly as she tried to dispel the sudden onslaught of images from last night. As if sensing her sudden…predicament, Lexa turned her laser vision on to the GT-R. Later the papers would rave about how Lexa had seemed to focus on only one person as she threw a saucy wink, though they couldn’t figure out whom it was for. It made for incredible press.

At that moment though, Clarke had only one thought running through her mind.

She was fucked.


End file.
